


Jeeves and the Bed for Two

by TheRothwoman



Category: Jeeves & Wooster, Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: Dreams and Nightmares, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-03 03:52:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2837066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRothwoman/pseuds/TheRothwoman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While sharing a bed on a ship to New York, our boys see new sides of each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. As Told by Bertie

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this waaaaaaaay back in 2009, around the height of my Jeeves and Wooster phase. As much as I shipped the hell out of Bertie and Jeeves, I found it a little tiring that nearly every single fanfic with them followed the same formula and paired them up. In other words, not a lot of gen-fic. So I thought I'd try my hand at friendship fluff and this is what came out. Hope it still holds up!

“I say, Jeeves, I’ve just noticed: there doesn’t seem to be any decent spot in our stateroom for you to sleep!”

“I believe I shall be quite comfortable on the sofa, sir.”

“Oh, come now, Jeeves. We can’t have that! Look, the bed’s big enough for two.”

“…I’m afraid I shall have to decline your kind offer, sir.”

“Jeeves, the Wooster spirit sees no reason why an exceptional chap such as yourself, _especially_ such as yourself, should be deprived of a sufficient station on which to nab the eight hours just because he happens to be away from home for a bit. I must insist.”

“…Very good, sir.”

\----------------

Dashed awkward thing it must be, sharing a bed with one’s employer for the first time. “But Bertie,” surely you must be thinking to yourselves by now “It was your idea in the first place!” Well, I say to you “Let the record show that Wooster, Bertram W. is a man of chivalry and wants to see that his most-deserving valet gets an actual bed on this sea-journey and did not act on some sort of latent daffy feelings for the man.” Well, perhaps that last portion was a bit harsh. My man Jeeves stands alone, there can be no denying that, and I wouldn’t trade him for anything at all in the world. There most defiantly exists between us some sort of connection-thingummy that extends beyond the normal ties of gentleman and gentleman’s gentleman, but I’m not quite sure what to call the dashed thing yet.

Maybe I’ll think of a good name for it after what happened that first night.

The actual getting-into of the bed itself was of no large significance, save the fact that I had never before seen Jeeves in pyjamas. They were of a deep grey and almost cast the illusion that he had never removed his uniform, unless of course one actually bothered to stop and really look. We got in at a comfortable distance from each other, so as to avoid imposing on the other’s body, said our usual “good night’s” (differ-something from the everynight by the absence of this exchange being followed immediately by Jeeves leaving the room and switching off the lights), and tottered off to sleep. Some time later, I awoke.  

Couldn’t tell what time it was, but being completely surrounded by mostly-but-not-quite-thanks-to-the-moon darkness seemed to drop a hint that all good chaps should be well into the waltz through dreamland. My first thought, naturally, was “what the dickens am I doing up?” but a few moments of rousing the old bean made two possible reasons quite clear to me:

1) Somehow, we’d forgotten to close the window before settling down for the night and now a cold sea breeze was making itself most unwelcome in our stateroom.

2) Jeeves had wound himself ‘round the Wooster corpus and was shivering ever so slightly.

The poor blighter was cold! And was clinging to me for warmth, no less! Well, hardly surprising after mulling over the facts for a mo’. I was, after all, the heat source in closest proximity. Funny thing, though. I felt the draft too, but it wasn’t enough to make me shiver-worthy. Jeeves’ body felt warm enough to send any worries of illness scampering on their merry way, but I couldn’t leave the old thing trembling like this. I tried shifting myself ever so slightly so as to get a better idea in the direction of disentangling myself from my valet’s pleading embrace. Got to get out of bed and close that bally window, now, what? While rotating myself to my back, I found Jeeves’ grip to be not as tight as I feared. His arms and legs slid from their position almost as fluidly as his feet (and the rest of him) entered rooms, but considering his current state, what was to stop them from shimmering back to their original p.? I slipped out from the folds of the sheets while I still could and padded over to seal off the offending chill from outside. My task completed, I started back towards the impending coziness.

Then I noticed two more things:

1) No wonder Jeeves was shivering instead of me. I’d hogged all the sheets in my sleep! Never even knew I did that until now. I’d have some apologies to bestow upon my man come the morning.

2) I’d also very nearly shoved him off the bed. Dashed surprised he hadn’t fallen already. Might even have had his legs dangling over the side if they hadn’t been drawn in Bertram’s furnace-like direction.

Thought I’d best be setting right what I could while I was up. As gently as the Wooster digits would allow without waking Jeeves, I attempted to slide him from the danger zone at the edge of the bed. Sorry to say that my confidence in this task shied and whinnied after a single prod and it took another minute or so for me to nab some sugar cubes and coax it back. The second time, my worries were nearly confirmed as my touch elicited a small Jeevesian groan, causing my fingers to leap back faster than if they had been electrocuted. Despite the recent circs of Jeeves sleepily taking Bertram as a personal heat-producing hug-pillow, I was quite unsure as to how well he would take to waking with his master’s hands all over him.

And by Jove! Would you believe it? Jeeves scooted back ever so slightly on his own! A marvel, that man, I tell you. I gingerly leaned over and grasped my subconsciously-selfish wad of sheets, draping them over his great frame with as gentle a touch as I could muster. As a drowsy afterthought, I made a motion completely defeating the purpose of my caution in the last few actions: I reached out with one hand and stroked Jeeves’ arm.

“That’ll start the warming process, like chappies who rub their hands together when they get cold” I must have been thinking. Either way, Jeeves continued to clock in the eight hours and I figured I had best be resuming my count as well. Nudging under the covers again, I didn’t put quite the same distance between us as we had at the beginning of the night. I weighed the possibilities of threatening him off the bed again with making sure he was close enough to heat to stop shivering and managed to find what was, I think, anyway, a happy medium on the mattress.

And I confess the iron will of the feudal spirit was all that prevented me from taking Jeeves in my own arms and fueling the healing furnace until his tremors ceased. Also, if he did happen to go over the side, we’d both go down together and he wouldn’t have to be alone in suffering the bruises.

Dashed curious thing, this bond-thingummy between us. Any other bloke you might meet would probably glance at his man shivering from cold in the night and think “well, what of it, then?” before popping off to his own comfortable chambers. But not B. Wooster and his Jeeves. All it took for me was to see said shivering and remember that the man was indeed just as human as the rest of us and deserved the same pity for having a chill as a child at the family cabin in wintertime. I’d never even seen Jeeves asleep before and the combination before me made him seem almost uncharacteristically _vulnerable_.

But, I’m afraid, as we had never entered into conscious physical contact of the aforementioned type, I didn’t want to startle the man now by, well, I think I’ve already said my piece about the hands-all-over-him. Body-all-over-him was right out. But with this development, I thought it might not be too impossible a possibility to introduce this idea in the waking hours when we were both fully waked (and fully clothed). The shut window, restored blankets, and brief arm-rub would have to take on the job for now.

I don’t understand how he does it. I really just don’t. Even in his sleep, as I think I stated before, the man amazes me.

He smiled in his sleep.

Not to say that I’ve never seen Jeeves smile ever, but this was a different kind of smile. The contented kind that seemed, if my moonlight-aided vision wasn’t pulling my leg, to accompany the closing of one’s period of cold-shaking. Well, I mean to say, be dashed if that didn’t bring smile to the old Wooster face to match. I felt like a jolly old fool at that mo’, quite honestly. I should’ve known Jeeves better; never long would he be out of the loop for any reason. My worries for my dearest valet could retire to the shelves for the night.

It was time for the more personal Wooster-worries to de-shelve themselves.


	2. As Told by Jeeves

I heard everything.

I’m afraid that Mr. Wooster lacks, among many other things, my ability to move noiselessly about in a room. Also, I myself happen to be a fairly light sleeper. I awoke to the curious sensation of Mr. Wooster removing himself from my grasp at some indeterminable hour, but refrained from making my rousing known until I had sorted the scenario out in my head. I noticed first and foremost that I was quite chilled and that the resulting shivers were all that prevented me from lying completely still. Second, I appeared to be completely bare as far as bedclothes were concerned, the most likely cause of my chilliness. Third, I also appeared to have unconsciously gravitated towards Mr. Wooster in my sleep, a phenomenon not uncommon with couples who lie together on cold nights or with small children sharing a parent’s bed. This motion unfortunately seemed to have entailed my making considerably closer contact with my employer than was acceptable. I should have to apologize profusely the next morning and ask for Mr. Wooster’s forgiveness. I hardly think that this form of intimacy was what he had in mind when he so graciously invited me to share his bed on this sea voyage.

At this little self-reminder, I scolded myself for worrying. Mr. Wooster does draw lines when our interests and authorities clash, but I have found in my time in his employ that he is, in the end, willing to bend to reason. Forgiveness felt far more probable when thought of this way, adding to the undeniable characteristics of Mr. Wooster as a kind and warm-hearted young gentleman.

I heard the stateroom window shut and Mr. Wooster returning in the direction of the bed. The affair of his attempting to shift me further from the edge of the bed passed, somehow, without alerting him to my heightened state of awareness and he resumed his previous position beneath the sheets. I permitted myself a small smile at this juncture, assuming that the light in the stateroom would not be sufficient enough to facilitate its viewing by Mr. Wooster, if indeed he happened to be looking in my direction at the time or even if he had his eyes open. I rarely received this variety of kindness from Mr. Wooster, with the notable exception of a comforting pat on the shoulder while I briefly grieved the death of fashion sense in Long Island poets, and I confess that it was a most welcome addition to the collection of my rewards. It broke the near monotony of our usual disposal of unsuitable garments. I drifted off to sleep again, riding on the happy reassurance of just how lucky I was to have such an empathically exceptional employer.

I was awoken some time later by a most alarming sound.

At first, I had thought that Mr. Wooster had suddenly become unable to breathe, but then I recognized the noise not to be anaphylaxis, but sobbing. I opened my eyes this time. The darkness was still quite prevalent, but the moonlight from outside cast enough light inside the stateroom to confirm my less life-threatening theory. Mr. Wooster’s usual serene and joyful face was contorted by emotional agony and streaked with desperate bitter tears. He was also gripping a fistful of the bedding quite firmly, as though it was the single most important thing that could possibly exist in the world.

And then he began mumbling something. It wasn’t quite a whisper, but it was low enough that, even at our remarkably close proximity, I would have to lip-read to fully understand him.

I concentrated with all I had, and I heard him:

“…please…”

“…not again…”

“…don’t leave me…”

“…I don’t want to be alone…”

This was recurring.

Mr. Wooster was having recurring nightmares.

I cursed myself vigorously. How could I not have noticed this? Surely I would have heard him, or even found tearstains on his pillow in the morning. I had seen fate bestow misfortunes upon many individuals who had done nothing wrong and did not deserve their punishments, but this was outright torture. Despite outward appearances, Mr. Wooster already suffers enough. He is always being dragged into the affairs of his friends and relatives with little thought for himself. He will usually take to complaining about being involved in the other’s circumstances, but he always goes through with it in the end. The poor young gentleman has had to endure the threat of marriage to countless unsuitable young women, physical abuse from those who thought him wrong, imprisonment, and even exile from his own home. Oh, to count the many times I have seen him hopelessly distressed would be a futile task. At the very least, a man should have the comfort and reprieve of the night’s sleep to take refuge in after times of hardship, and Mr. Wooster was being denied even that.

I could not allow myself to leave him like this.

Using the clues in his sleep-talk, I attempted to piece together what his nightmare must be entailing. From what little I had heard, I could only assume that he was being forced in his dream to relive the departure of someone very close and dear to him. I speculated that if I could create, through the use of real-world methods, the suggestion in his subconsciousness that this person was not leaving, perhaps even imitate this other person, it might create some form of closure in his mind and effectively cease the recurrence of the nightmares. To put it simply, I would need to physically comfort him in some way and give vocal reassurance while he was sleeping.

Now the question remained how to perform the former. With children, it was customary to take them in one’s arms, as they were small enough to accommodate a fuller embrace, but how to do it with a grown man? I had read in many novels that featured a funeral scene that adults had a tendency to squeeze each other’s hands or shoulders in reassurance. Unfortunately, Mr. Wooster was, in many ways, much like a child in a grown man’s body. Knowing my exceptional fondness for Mr. Wooster but remembering my place in society as well, I decided to try the lighter approach. I reached out with one hand and placed it on the fist clutching the bedsheets, stroking it with my thumb. The fist, to my relief, relaxed slightly. What happened next was quite unexpected.

Mr. Wooster all but threw himself at me, clinging to me desperately as though for dear life.

“…don’t…leave…p-please…I…d-don’t want…to be…alone…”

And I openly confess that it violently broke my heart.

I felt no need for restraint at this point. Bertie Wooster needed me. I wrapped my arms around him and held him tight, resuming my thumb-stroking at the small of his back.

“There there, Bertram,” I whispered gently, one hand moving to stroke his hair. If his face had not been buried in my chest, I would have moved the hand down to wipe his tears away. The fabric of my pyjamas would have to do the task for me. “I’m not going anywhere, and I’m not leaving you, ever. Come now, there’s no need to cry anymore.”

And I found there was no need for imitation, for I meant every last word of it. I lay there cradling my poor childlike young master far past the subsiding of his sobs. It was not until he had finally settled into a calm rhythm of peaceful breathing, and was relaxed in my arms instead of tense, that I allowed myself to fall asleep again.


	3. The Next Morning

I am a natural early-riser, which is quite fortunate as my profession requires it. With the events of last night to consider, it was even more fortunate, for I was as of yet unsure as to how Mr. Wooster would take my deliberately embracing him in the night. He seemed to have no qualms against my doing so involuntarily the first time when I was unconsciously in need of warmth, but what I had engaged in last night was most likely overstepping my boundaries to a considerable degree, heart-breaking and well-intentioned or not. Of course there was still that small matter of Mr. Wooster’s rubbing of my arm to take into consideration.

Mr. Wooster’s and my arms were still quite intimately draped over each other’s bodies, his head nestled comfortably between my chest and upper-arm. My pyjama top only felt the slightest amount of dampness from where he had been crying so pitifully, poor dear man. I dared not inquire what he had seen in this obviously horrid nightmare, unless of course he so chose to bring up the matter himself at some later time. As I gazed at his still-sleeping form, I remembered once more why I stayed with him “through thick and thin,” as he himself might say, all this time.

We needed each other. He needed me for guidance and support, and I needed him to give my life true purpose. I’m afraid my further explanation of this statement will have to wait a short while longer.

Withdrawing myself from Mr. Wooster’s side, I worried first of waking him and then of leaving him alone, even for the brief period of time in which I would be changing into my day-garments and fetching his morning tea. I found both concerns to be remedied by a long glance at Mr. Wooster, sleeping so peacefully as though terrors of the night existed for no one. One can usually guess accurately as to a person’s state of mind while dozing by carefully examining their body language. All I needed to see was that light, tender smile on Mr. Wooster’s face.

I completed my readiness for the day not a moment too soon. Mr. Wooster was stirring at last, as always my cue to drift in with the tray carrying his Darjeeling restorative. He took it, as per usual, and then proceeded to gaze absently off into the distance for some considerable period of time. Most unlike him. It was not hard to guess what was on his mind, but I managed to feign ignorance until he spoke first.

“You know something, Jeeves?” he said, in a tone that reassured me that he was, for the most part, still himself. “I’ve never told anyone before but, well, you know about that rum sitch with my parents, don’t you?”

“You mean their untimely passing, sir?”

“Right. Well, ever since said u.p., I’ve been…well, it’s a dashed odd thing…I’ve, well, had the occasional nightmare about it. You see, I know it’s something normal that happens to chaps who’ve endured some sort of terrible…blast, what’s the word, Jeeves? Starts with a T?”

“’Trauma,’ sir?” I secretly admired his ability to maintain his everyday brightness and spirit while touching on such an emotionally trying subject.

“Yes, that’s the one. Well, apparently this ‘trauma’ fellow is dashed selective about when he strikes the unconscious Wooster anatomy. I haven’t got a bally clue why, but…I only seem to get these nightmares when I’ve woken up too early in the a.m., before sunrise, you know, and then attempted to return to the dreamless. Had the misfortune of falling victim to the blighter last night. It’s always the bally same.”

I could tell at this point that Mr. Wooster was only speaking in his normal jargon in order to provide himself some mental security. My own curiosity was, I’m sorry to say, preventing me from telling him that he need not continue if it was causing him discomfort. He inhaled deeply before proceeding. His voice was starting to break ever so slightly.

“In the dream, I’m standing there in blank space…and there are my parents. But they’re dead, and I _know_ they’re dead. They’re all…white and smiling tragically and all that. And then they start to leave, and of course, we’re in blank space so there’s nothing else at all around, and I try to chase them, naturally. I mean, what boy wouldn’t dash after his parents if he hadn’t an inkling where they were going? Then they…fade after a moment, leaving me completely alone, not a soul around. Now naturally, Jeeves, this was hardly how the scene played out in the real world. I had a wealth of aunts and uncles to take me in, and I cert. wasn’t standing in the middle of bally nowhere.”

He sniffled and all but shrugged it off. It was paining me greatly to see my young master putting himself through this, but I also felt it was somewhat necessary for him. There are always things on one’s mind that one wishes to speak aloud and thus hope to lessen the burden on oneself. If this talk was to turn into a heart-to-heart session, I decided to prepare myself for some unburdening of my own once Mr. Wooster completed his.

He had not smiled for the past couple of minutes.

“So, my parents start to fade away and I start screaming my little head off after them…begging them not to leave me and whatnot. And then if that wasn’t rum enough, the blank white space around me starts to turn to black, and not opposite-of-white black, but, well… _pitch_ -black, really. That kind that makes children believe there are monsters waiting to leap out and devour them alive. Then, of course, I fall to my knees and have a good cry all by my lonesome for gosh-knows-how-long until the dashed dream just goes away. But last night was…” He paused and took a deep breath, struggling to find the proper word. Under normal circumstances, I would have readily provided him with the lost article, but I was not certain enough as to which one he was searching for.

“… _different_.”

Of course.

“Last night, right when I’d gotten to about the part where I start bawling like the perpetual kid I am in my sleep, something dashed unusual happened. I felt a hand, a human hand, not a monster hand, take mine and give it a little squeeze. Like something was trying to say ‘not all is lost forever, young Bertram.’ Well, needless to say that was exactly the sort of disposish I needed at that mo’ and, thinking that where there was a hand there must a rest-of-the-body, I reached out to grasp this mysterious reassuring figure and begged it not to leave me, too. And, well, I got a little more than I bargained for. This person, I couldn’t see who it was, leaned down and put their arms around me and held me close and said something like ‘I’ll never leave you’ and ‘there’s no need to cry anymore.’ Naturally, I was still weeping up a storm but…oh dear, I’m sorry, Jeeves.”

“That’s quite alright, sir.” He had finally taken notice of the pair of tears making streaks down his face. He made quick work of them and sniffled again, prompting me to produce a handkerchief for him. Traditionally, the sound of a gentleman blowing his nose is quite a revolting and improper one, but in Mr. Wooster’s case it sounded almost mournful.

“So this mystery chap, I could tell it was a chap by his voice, he…he _didn’t_ go. Stayed true to his word to the last. He just sat there comforting me until my tears had run their dashed course and my dream finally ended on a hopeful note for once.” His face contorted in one of his bizarre frowns that implied an impending statement of importance. He finally turned to look me in the eyes. “I wish you’d be more like that sometimes, Jeeves.”

Naturally, his words startled me.

“If you recall, sir, I have always been of ready, willing, and able service to you for any manner of crises which, I’m sorry to say, occur so frequently in your life…”

“Yes, I know that, Jeeves, and I couldn’t be more grateful if the most famished man on the face of the planet was finally given three square meals and a bed to sleep in. But…blast, you’re a dashed soothing presence, Jeeves, but sometimes you’re just not willing to rally round just because the young master is wearing some disapprove-able tie or hat! I’ve had this peel of the Wooster onion hanging for a jolly long time, but considering the circs, it must be said here and now: We’ve a unique relationship, Jeeves. You matter to me almost more than a brother would and……dash it, I just need a bally _hug_ once in a while, Jeeves.”

I needn’t even have asked. My fears were null and void. Mr. Wooster had no objection to that form of physical contact, he actually _desired_ it. He was correct in his assumption that I lightly averted myself from him while he donned an unsuitable garment or, on unluckier occasions, a moustache, but in the present circumstance of confession and need, I saw no reason why I should deny Mr. Wooster a simple comfort that he wanted and that, quite frankly, everyone deserved.

“Indeed, sir,” and it would be wrong of me to say that I put no hint of any emotion in it. Mr. Wooster apparently noticed, as he looked up at me with that usual innocent perplexity, deepening the pathos with his startling blue eyes going red-rimmed from crying again. There was also a bit of raising of the eyebrows as I sat myself down on the bed next to him. I’m afraid I could not determine his expression when I took him in my arms again. Stroking a reassuring hand against his back, I waited for his reaction. I’m afraid it usually takes a few moments for Mr. Wooster’s brain to process certain forms of information. I egged it on slightly by repeating my gentle whisper from the night before:

“There there, Bertram. I’m not going anywhere, and I’m not leaving you, ever. Come now, there’s no need to cry anymore.”

I felt a set of arms clasp around me.

“Jeeves! I say! That was _you_ the whole time!”

“Yes, sir. I had admittedly been hesitant about how to handle the situation last night, despite our unique relationship, as you put it, sir, as my feelings about acting on the matter have been shifting back and forth for quite some time. On this occasion, I’m afraid gave in, sir.”

“Good Lord, Jeeves, don’t apologize! A chap should never apologize for showing concern for another! You did bally well right!”

For once in his young, mentally negligible life, Mr. Wooster had presented a somewhat poignant notion in very few words.

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“Jeeves, what did I just…" 

“The truth is, sir, that it is now my belief that you understand my part in our coexistence but do not quite understand your own.” I released him and drew back, so that we could look each other in the face like proper gentlemen. “You…give my life purpose, sir. Out of all the employers I have had in my time, I have never encountered one who was quite as concerned and compassionate as you are, sir, nor given me use or appreciation of the high mental prowess I possess for someone of my station. Had you not come along, I fear, sir, that my existence would be an ordinary and almost pointless one. To put it in a simpler, more poetic form, I would be little or nothing without you, sir. I am…” I regret to say that my advanced vocabulary failed me “…truly happy here with you, and I must say, sir, that you are the closest person I have had to a friend in my entire life.”

Mr. Wooster’s jaw dropped at some point in my monologue and did not close again for some considerable period of time. When he did he looked flustered, but positively so. He finally cracked a smile again.

“By George, Jeeves, why stop at ‘closest person’ now that all this writing’s on the wall?” He threw his arms quite forcefully around me, much akin to how he had done so during his nightmare. The differences, of course, being his awakened state and his attitude of distinctly Woosterian cheeriness. The latter was of a tremendous relief to me after hearing such an uncharacteristic outpouring of grief from the young master. Indeed, there did seem to be a much greater openness between us, now that we had both expressed our feelings. Therefore, I felt little to no fear in embracing Mr. Wooster…or perhaps he would prefer me to call him “Bertie” in private from now on…for the fourth time in the past 24 hours. As I have already stated it twice, I feel that a third stating would be most appropriate: I had no intention of leaving him, ever. If what he needed was support and caring for, in both the social and emotional senses, and what I needed was a life that worked to the highest level of intellect that my position would allow, and perhaps then some, then what was to deny us a mutual understanding?

“I think I understand you, Jeeves. I really do,” Mr. Wooster continued. “You’re everything to me, Jeeves. In fact, at the risk of sounding like an invert, I’d almost say I loved you.”

The End


End file.
